


Truth and America's Way: A Collection of One-Shots

by btwrites_ow



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Junkenstein's Revenge, Multi, Necromancy, One Shot Collection, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Temporary Character Death, Tumblr Prompt, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 13:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18470326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/btwrites_ow/pseuds/btwrites_ow
Summary: one-shots and requests from tumblr. more to be added.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oct. 7, 2017 request: Could you do something cute for Anahardt? Maybe Ana patching him up after a mission and being all worried

“I don’t know how you do it,” Ana fussed, wrapping layers of bandages around the bulk of Reinhardt’s bicep. “Careless. Absolutely  _reckless_.”

“Liebling, you worry too much,” the knight responded, smiling naively. “It is just a flesh wound.”

Ana’s harsh gaze pierced into him, causing a light blush to touch his cheeks. “‘Just a flesh wound’? Reinhardt, have you gone senile? You were shot!” She had the urge to smack him across the head once, to knock some sense into him, but resisted it. He had enough wounds as it stood.

“Only in the arm,” Reinhardt responded lamely, unable to meet his darling’s sharp, honey-colored eye.

Ana growled, wiping the blood off her gloved hands. What was she going to do with this fiery, battle-thirsty old man? Every day she worried for his well-being, what with his charging off into fights without a second thought. Thankfully nothing major had happened to him since his eye was blinded, but it was only a matter of time – he had to be more careful!

“You still mutter when you are angry,” Reinhardt suddenly murmured, glancing up at her a few times like a guilty dog.

Ana sighed through her nose, closing her eye. “You have always been so reckless, Reinhardt. I don’t know what kind of miracles have kept you alive for so long, but one day, they will run out.”

“German engineering!” he exclaimed, laughing his rolling, hearty laugh that reverberated his chest and Ana’s entire body when she lay against him. Her eyebrows creased, disapproving. He cleared his throat and shut up.

“I won’t always be around to heal you back up.” She put away her tools, studying the lead round that she’d taken from Reinhardt’s arm. It was strange to see lead bullets anymore; she would’ve preferred if it had been a pulse round. Then she wouldn’t have so much blood in her bunk, and the wound would’ve already been cauterized for her. But, she digressed; a few stitches and an injection of her serum and he was good to go.

Reinhardt took her hand in his massive one, his grasp gentle despite its urgency. He was always so careful with her – she often told him she wasn’t a fragile glass statue, that he needn’t treat her as such, but he never listened. Every touch was feather-light and baby-soft. She couldn’t say she disliked it.

“I will protect you with my dying breath, liebling,” he promised, gingerly pulling her back toward him. She allowed herself to be drawn back, her cold shoulder rapidly thawing. How could she stay mad at him? It felt wrong, even when it was deserved. “Miene liebste, if anyone should die first, it will be me. And I will be doing what I love! Fighting with the beautiful Ana Amari at my side.”

Ana snorted incredulously, smirking. “I won’t allow it.”

Reinhardt chuckled, putting his arms around her and pulling her to his armored chest. “Then I suppose we will just have to settle for immortality.”

“Hm. Maybe not that long.” She pressed a kiss to his lips, feeling him reciprocate. It filled her with a fierce protectiveness, an affection that made her feel as if she would take on the world to protect him. He might’ve been impetuous, he might’ve been stubborn – but nothing would touch him so long as Ana was alive.

She decided that, as long as Reinhardt had her and Brigitte and the rest of the reformed Overwatch at his back, he would live out the rest of his days healthy and safe – well, as safe as a battlefield would allow. It was good enough for her; their lives were turbulent at best, and they could only settle for what they had – each other. It wasn’t as if either were cut out for retirement, anyways.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dec. 10, 2017 request: umm idk if you have your muse back (if not I hope you do soon! I know how frustrating it can be) but when you do I wanted to request something where Mercy uses her rez on Roadhog and it's the first time he's seen it in person/ experienced it and he's just sort of amazed by it?

So. This was death.

It hurt at first. Even someone like Mako couldn’t say it didn’t. But then it was warm and sticky and felt a lot like blood, and regret, and sadness. And then it was a blanket. A black, heavy blanket.

And then, it was childhood. The last calm time of his life he could remember – spending time with his mother, his father, his siblings. He remembered he liked to go fishing.

Next, it was growing up. It was getting a job. It was becoming an adult. It was falling in love; it was having a family.

Then, death took the form of a huge explosion, a hot burn that he never remembered feeling in his life. The Omnium…

Then, death was forgetful. He forgot being a child. He forgot getting older. He forgot his family. He forgot being normal. He forgot the explosion, he forgot becoming the reckless, bloodthirsty monster the whole world knew him to be. He forgot the people he killed. He forgot Junkrat.

He forgot her.

Funny, he thought he’d lost the ability to love. But it came back at the end of his life, like some ironic, bittersweet stab-wound. It came on soft blonde hair and mechanical angel wings. It was younger than he was, but it was wiser than he had ever been. It wasn’t judgemental – it was kind and compassionate; it was sometimes sharp, and sometimes passive-aggressive, but it was pleasant all the same.

It was a doctor. It – no,  _she_  – was such a smart woman. She knew exactly what he needed even when he didn’t know how to explain it. She wasn’t brash like Jamie. She always asked if she was allowed to touch him. He knew it was because she was apprehensive of him, even when he thought they might’ve gotten close somehow. She thought he would lash out at her. But he would never dream of it.

She didn’t love him. He never thought she did. But it was comforting to delude himself, especially right when he was forgetting she ever existed.

He woke up. The room was dimly lit, gentle on the eyes. He was confused; was the afterlife a bed? An empty, white-ceilinged room with mellow lights and a sterile smell?

He realized he didn’t have his mask on. He panicked for a split moment; he’d never been without his mask in nearly 20 years. It was his identity, it was who he was – without it, he was a nobody, he had no name, he had no direction.

Its absence was infuriating.

He sat up with a growl, a shudder that shook the bed and the floor and the walls. He had tubes and wires hanging out from his skin; he was glad to notice them before he got up. He seriously considered just ripping them out and dealing with the consequences later, but his thoughts were cut short by the sound of someone clearing their throat.

She sat there, in a chair by his bed, so close he could smell her light perfume. He immediately covered his face with his huge hands, embarrassed and furious that she had to see him this way.

She didn’t  _deserve_  that.

She placed a gentle, feather-light hand on his arm. Her voice was soothing, the best sound in the world. “Are you okay, Mako? Is there something…unnatural?”

He shook his head.

“I’m glad you’re here, you know?”

He glanced at her through his fingers.

She was tired. He could see it. But she was beautiful anyways, and the dark bags under her eyes and the coffee stains on her coat could never change that. How long had she been awake? How long had she been sitting in that chair?

“This is…extremely hard to explain…” She tittered nervously, then, as if just noticing her hand lingering on the junker’s arm, she pulled away. “I, ah…”

He waited as patiently as he could, and wished she wouldn’t have taken away her hand.

“Well…you…um…y-you…” She shut her eyes and sighed. They stayed closed for awhile, her light eyelashes free of the dark mascara she usually wore.

They stayed shut so long, Mako thought she’d fallen asleep. He was too scared to touch her, afraid that, if he did, she would disappear and he would get draped in darkness again.

That, or she would be so disgusted by him that she would slap his hand away and walk out.

He stayed frozen on the spot. Eventually, Dr. Ziegler’s clear, blue gaze met his – if only for a moment.

“You – you passed away, Mako,” she blurted, unable to look at him. She glared at the floor. “You were – y-you took a bullet to the heart, and there was nothing…nothing I could do to stop you from…from passing.”

Ah. So it wasn’t a dream.

“Jamison…wouldn’t have it. He blamed anyone he could. But there was nothing to be done.” She picked at her cuticles. He noticed she must’ve done that a lot; the skin around her nails was ragged and bloody. “Except…my forbidden practice. I’ve only done it once before. It’s a dangerous procedure…in fact, I would consider you my first real success. That may not be fair, however. You, ah, only needed a heart replacement.”

He stared.

She bit her lip. There was more she wanted to say, but she wasn’t sure how to say it. “I…Iwouldn’t have it, either, Mako. I think you have so much more to live for. You have done questionable things, things I cannot possibly know…” She shrunk. “…But I believe you can reform. Someone just…just needs to be there for you, is all.”

He stared some more. Dr. Ziegler shifted in her seat.

He turned his face away. Still covering it with one hand, he reached to her with the other. He would understand if she didn’t take it, though. In her place, who would?

She took it. It shocked him; he flushed. Her hand was so tiny compared to his; if he were to apply any pressure, he was sure he would break it.

But the good doctor didn’t seem to have such qualms. She seemed…content with it. After a few silent moments, she murmured, “Tell me, my friend. What would make things better for you?”

And he told her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> feb. 1, 2018 request: Ur doing requests and I’m curious abt symcree so,,,, a first meeting, perhaps?

The first time Jesse saw Satya, it was with his hands behind his back and two brutish guards at his sides.

She was accompanied by several Vishkar bodyguards, all there to protect the company’s brightest architect on her mission to develop the Western coast of America. She stood straight, her chin held high, her dark hair in a tight bun. She regarded him emotionlessly.

“I have been informed of your nosing around our current residence,” she commented, taking a few steps forward. Her gaze flitted down his body, appraising him like a head of cattle, before she looked back up, letting their eyes meet; from behind the orange glass, Jesse could see the warmth of her irises, similar in color to his own. “Would you care to tell me why you were here, sir?”

“Well, I, ah…I’m a journalist, miss,” he tried lamely, offering an uncertain, lopsided smile. “It’s, er, kinda what I do.”

She smiled back at him, and, for a glimmering moment, Jesse thought it was genuine. But then she spoke again. “You are  _not_  a journalist, sir, and that much is obvious. Please be honest.”

His smile fell. “N-no, really, miss, I write articles online. Don’t let the outfit fool ya.”

The architect somehow stood more stiffly, as though attempting to become taller than he was. “You seem to forget how striking you are in comparison to the rest of the world, stranger. You are not an easy miss, and certainly much more difficult to forget.”

 _Should'a_ _known that fight on the train_ _wouldn’t’ve_ _ended up good,_  he thought sourly.

The woman before him smiled slightly wider. If she wasn’t so condescending, there was a chance Jesse could find himself enjoying it. “I would like the truth from you, vagrant. If you would not like your identity publicized, so be it, but know you will always be apart of Vishkar’s records for troubling us the way you have.”

Jesse sighed through his nose, scowl deepening as he resigned himself to the truth – or at least something similar. “Well, while I  _was_  lookin’ for a decent story –”

She gave him a resolve-melting glare.

“– I just – just – look.” He flexed his hands, causing the guards beside him to hold him tighter. He gritted his teeth, then continued. “I’m not workin’ for anybody. I’m alone. I dispense justice on my own terms. I see trouble, I help fix it.”

“Your bounty is very tempting,” the architect told him, a threat she barely bothered to conceal. “In fact, I’m sure someone would pay handsomely for just your name. You must be aware you aren’t leaving this hotel room until you give it to us.”

Jesse nodded. He didn’t think it would turn out any other way.

He met her gaze again, hickory versus tawny stone, and gave her two names without so much as a smirk. “Joel Morricone or Jesse McCree. You pick which is mine.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. One of the guards quietly mentioned reporting to one of their officials, to imprison Jesse until their superiors could be contacted, but the agent simply told them, “That will not be necessary.” She motioned Jesse forward. He obeyed, not fully on his own terms.

He was brought out into the hallway, the men holding him back stripped from his sides. His hands were still bound, however, ensuring the agent’s safety. He wouldn’t have expected anything less.

“I am willing to make a deal with you, criminal.”

She was close. Not uncomfortably so, but close enough he could smell her perfume, something cinnamon and sweet. He could see the perfectly-applied lipgloss shimmer in the diluted light, the careful eye makeup, pristine yet not meant to seen, making her eyes pop behind the visor. When her hands came forward from behind her back, her dark nails clicked and contrasted against her hard-light glove.

McCree looked back up at her face. He said nothing.

“You seek information, and, if you work with me, you will get it.” She eyed a stray hair poking out from under his hat at an awkward angle. “I’ll allow you your freedom in exchange for an…alliance, of sorts. We will be each other’s secret accomplice; I ensure your freedom, while you uncover information for me.”

Jesse had suspicions right off the bat. “There’s a catch, ain’t there? What’d'ya want me to find?”

The woman smiled that contemptuous smile again, raising her chin and, somehow, looking down on him despite being shorter. “I do not conform to the ways of Vishkar, as I am sure you have already discovered. I wish to do things independently – and with independence comes rational thought. I fear Vishkar have dealings with a malevolent force that even its own architects are unaware of. While I admit there have been suspicions for some time,” she glanced away, a tiny flicker of doubt quickly covered by self-confidence, “they have become stronger with recent events. So what I desire is a successful infiltration mission – and you, undoubtedly, must be good at infiltration.”

Jesse gritted his teeth, suppressing the urge to tell her to mind her own. “What makes ya think that, miss?”

“You managed to get in this hotel. That is no small feat; the staff are all Vishkar cooperatives. If you were not identified to be a paying guest, you would be removed from the premises. Consequentially, for you to be found snooping around on the floor I am located on, that would require you to be an expert in undercover operations or a master of disguise. Is it possible you are both?”

Jesse blinked, taking a moment to process what was said. “Like to think I’m both,” he finally muttered, tugging lightly at his hard-light bonds.

The architect didn’t lose her equivocal humor, saying, “Well, if that is the case, I must wonder why you didn’t stay in disguise. That armor is what gave you away.” She motioned to his chestplate with a pearly hand. “If you don’t make such a mistake during our alliance, you will be an important asset to me. Perhaps with the information you find out, I can turn Vishkar to another path.” She plucked lint from his stolen garb. Her touch was static.

Jesse frowned, then licked dry lips. “Guess I don’t got a choice, do I?”

Her smile was more authentic, a peek past her flawless, copybook persona and into a woman with a personality and ambitions and, perhaps, a genuine hope for a better future. “You are not a doltish man, vagabond. Might you give me your true name? I will make an exception, just this once, and put the other into our records.”

Jesse gave something akin to a smirk. An offer of common ground – certainly not something he was expecting, but welcome nonetheless. “You first, darlin’.”

The architect raised her eyebrows, her hand finding her face. “Oh…u-unexpected…”

He had to admit, her sudden bashfulness was endearing.

She cleared her throat, regaining her footing. “You may call me Symmetra, and refer to me as nothing more.”

“Is that so? How about a real name for a real name, miss? I’m sure ya understand.” Jesse winked.

Symmetra, as she called herself, beetled her brows and pursed her lips. “You are pushing your luck. Keep to what you have, journalist, before I –”

“Satya,” one of the guards called as she peeked out the hotel room, “are you all right? We don’t like that you’re out here alone with…him.” She nodded to Jesse.

The outlaw snorted and looked back to Satya, watching a flash of shock and anger cross her features. “I am quite all right. Report back to your station.”

The guard shrugged and did as she was told. Satya had her eyes closed, sighing harshly, as she turned back to Jesse. “Fate must be on your side today,” she said begrudgingly. “I am Satya Vaswani.”

When she opened her eyes again, their gazes met. Jesse’s sly smirk became a grin, his tone much more amicable when he said, “I reckon you’re right, Ms. Vaswani. I’m Jesse McCree.”

The architect nodded, stubbornly keeping her regal air. She motioned for Jesse to turn around, and, once he did, she took away his glowing blue bonds, her nails lightly scratching his wrist. He suppressed a shudder.

When the ties were gone and the gunslinger finished rolling his shoulders, Satya spoke again, her arms crossed. “You will not betray me, and you will not run away from our deal,” she growled. “You will report back to me in a week. Take this.”

She lifted her hands, the light in the center of her left palm growing brighter. With expert movements of her fingers, she constructed a tiny, cyan item, which she held between her fingertips once finished. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be an earpiece.

“We will keep tabs via these. I will replace them every week to avoid long-term damage and possible discovery.” She held it out to him.

He took it. It radiated warmth in his hand, an awe-inspiring creation made in mere seconds that he would, undoubtedly, spend hours staring at later on. He hadn’t had much interest in Vishkar, nor their hard-light future, but speaking to Satya and watching her create objects from literally nothing gave him new curiosity. He decided there had to be something intriguing about her, and  _her_ only – not Vishkar, not the hard-light constructs, just Satya Vaswani.

McCree looked up and nodded again, regaining his stern scowl. “I guess I owe ya that much. Ya could'a really run me through the ringer.”

Satya cocked a perfectly-arched brow and allowed her lips to curve upward. “You are absolutely right, Mr. McCree. You  _do_  owe me.” She studied him for a moment. Then, without thinking, she reached out and straightened his collar.

They both froze on the spot, staring in shock at one another, before she pulled her hand back.

“Apologies. Sometimes I…don’t think. Now, be on your way. I will tell them something they wish to hear.”

Jesse didn’t say anything, still feeling her warmth near his neck. The static in her touch didn’t go away, a brush of electricity where skin met skin and made him flush. He pulled his hat lower and turned away; a muttered goodbye was the last thing he said to her on that first afternoon meeting, though he knew they would speak again soon.

Or so he hoped.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mar. 15, 2018 request: junkrat and roadhog manage to capture mccree but while hog is out of the room, mccree charms junkrat into releasing him by taking him out on a date to see fireworks as his "last request." hoggie comes back and both the dorks are gone.

McCree leaned his head against a dirt-smeared hand, crossing one leg over the other as he sat back in his lawn chair. “Mighty nice of ya to lemme have this,” he began, “but do I really gotta be chained to the chair?” He rattled the chains for emphasis, clacking raucously against his prosthetic hand and the chair legs.

Jamie snickered, burying the concussion mine up under the “fireworks.” “Can’t have ya runnin’ away durin’ the show, can I?” he returned, adjusting one of the bombs. “Ain’t even given your mates time to even  _think_  about payin’ the ransom.” He hoped the chemicals he dumped in at the last minute would make the explosions colorful – and, er, not deadly. That would really ruin the last couple hours of the cowboy’s life.

“Guess you got a point.” McCree’s voice was begrudging, his face twisted in a stony scowl. It took all he had not to erupt on Jamie, and the junker knew that – hell, he’d be fighting like a cat stuck in a bag in his position. There was something respectable about his composure, and something a bit endearing about how furious he was.

His fury was different from Mako’s. His was one that would gladly kill Jamie if given the chance, despite his flirting and gusto, and would do so with a grin on his face. His was one that knew what it wanted and how it wanted it done. Such an organized hatred, meant just for him – it left Jamie feeling jittery, full of goosebumps and a morbid curiosity that made him want to let the Overwatch agent free, just to see exactly what he’d do.

What could he say? He liked dangerous men.

He bounced up and loped back over to McCree, his pretty little display ready to be set off. He slapped himself down into his seat beside the American’s, holding the detonator of the singular concussion mine with a giddy expression. “Ready for this?” he asked, leaning close and squeezing the other man’s arm. “Might wanna cover your ears, dear.”

McCree allowed himself to smirk ever so slightly, turning his attention to the display set up a safe enough distance away that it wouldn’t burn them to crisps. Jamie didn’t let go of his arm, hardly realizing his hand was lingering, and waited for him to plug his ears with his fingers.

And then…boom. The best sound in the world, so good he didn’t bother to cover his own ears.

Pinks and greens and purples burnt up the twilit sky with splendor Jamie didn’t think possible. The heat hit them moments after the colors, the multiple explosions leaving his head ringing in a way he could only describe as euphoric. Funny, he’d heard of the Omnic monks in Nepal trying to reach nirvana on the physical plane – if only those buckets of scrap could figure out it was right in front of them, just a matchstick away!

He squeezed Jesse’s arm harder, giggling as the bright embers started floating back down to the sand. Beside him – muffled, dampened by the popping of his eardrums – Jesse chuckled too, leaning closer so their shoulders were touching.

“That was ace!” Jamie screamed, loud enough so he could hear himself. “I made those! And I did ‘em right! Y'know, I’ve always wanted to make fireworks – never had a show!” He turned to look at Jesse, skin boiling with excitement and thinking the display didn’t last nearly as long as it should’ve. He opened his mouth to keep talking, only to find a scratchy beard and lightly chapped lips against his cheek before he could make a sound.

Fresh flames rushed through his blood, all of which shot to his head. Dizziness hit him like a bus; he felt like he was about to physically combust and splatter Jesse with brain matter, mere seconds after he made his night. He didn’t have a chance to ask why, his jaw refusing to work with his tongue and his tongue refusing to work with his brain. For once, he was dumbstruck.

Jesse stayed there for a moment, smiling against the side of his face with lowered eyelids. Then, quietly, he admitted, “You’re awful sweet, sugar bomb. Too bad for you I don’t much like desserts.”

Jamie glanced over, confused, just to feel the cold barrel of a revolver pressed to his temple. Sharp fear made his heart freeze, realizing a few seconds too late that the display was a distraction – one he made for his own damn self, keeping him entranced like a particularly dense toddler.

“I-I didn’t know ya could pick locks!” he exclaimed loudly, dismayed. “You slimy bastard!”

Jesse slowly got up, keeping the pistol to Jamie’s head. He dusted himself off, his denims having gotten dirty in the dust kicked up by the bombs. “That’s why ya look into people before kidnappin’ ‘em, hun. But, for future reference – I can pick locks, shoot a can outta the air from 200 feet away, and prefer coffee over tea.”

Jamie stared at the ground. How devious. How smarmy.

He couldn’t have done it better himself.

He should’ve been livid. He should’ve been trying to kick the cowboy’s feet out from under him, he should’ve been screaming bloody murder and  _committing_ bloody murder. But he was  _proud_. Disappointed, but proud. Christ, he should’ve known better!

Right where the bombs had been, a sleek ship landed from seemingly nowhere. Chrome outlines, hovering on blue fire that threw the charred sand in a circle around itself, made for a beautiful UFO Jamie would have given his remaining limbs to inspect closer. Jesse grinned, a lopsided thing that rivaled the nuttiness of Junkrat’s own. “Looks like the landin’ strip worked pretty well,” he exclaimed, turning to bolt for the opening door. “It’s been fun,  _¡querido!_ Take me to dinner next time, will ya?”

Jamie watched him run, his serape a victory flag flapping out behind him, before he hopped into the ship, as seamless as if being kidnapped and held for ransom was his idea from the start. The ship wasted no time in heaving itself off the ground, having gotten what it came for, before shooting into the sky.

Jamie watched the dust settle. When all was clear, he sighed, threw his head back, and covered his face with his hands.

Butterflies ate away at his innards, making themselves at home in his gut. He was blushing like mad, feeling as though he’d been in the sun for six hours too long. The feeling was addicting, something he got hooked on right there and then – and knew he had to see that too-smart-for-his-own-good, charming-beyond-reason asshole of a cowboy again. He needed revenge, if not something more.

When he moved his hands, he looked up into the black lenses of Roadhog’s mask. “He got away,” the big man muttered, not sounding surprised at all.

He wasn’t asking, but Jamie nodded anyway. “He’s a better thief than either of us are, Hog. I gotta get back at ‘im.”

Roadhog said nothing. Junkrat stood up, bouncing to his feet as excitement made his muscles shriek for movement. His bones fizzled with newfound purpose; his internal furnace burned the butterflies to twitching ashes as he began gimping back to the trailer. “I’m never washin’ this face again!” he told no one in particular, not intending to give an explanation to whoever was listening. He had a million thoughts hitting him at once, ways he could find the agents of Overwatch, how he could join them, how he could steal Jesse’s heart the way he stole his. Explanations could be given later.

Mako watched after him, narrowing his eyes behind the mask. Joining Overwatch was the last thing he’d expected Jamison to want to do, but who was to stop him? He was hellbent on revenge. Mako wouldn’t stand in the way of that.

He hoped the Overwatch agents had room for a motorcycle on that dinky ship of theirs. And maybe a Pachimari machine or two.


	5. A Means to an End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> high boom one-shot i did in october 2018, based in junkenstein's revenge au. had a lot of fun with it!

The chemical stench of formalin had become the mad doctor’s greatest sense of home in the last three months. The crackling lab was bathed in it, having become the home of his biggest success yet – bringing the dead back to life.

Oh, yes, the Witch of the Wilds had mastered that ability long ago with her potent magic and convoluted spells, but Jamison Junkenstein had done it with nothing but his wits! He’d spent countless hours toiling over the ragged body, pumping the arteries full of humectants, reigniting the brain with electricity. And now here his lovely was, functioning fully – though he was still a bit stiff in the muscles.

“All with due time,” Junkenstein sang cheerily, preparing more formaldehyde to pump into the man’s veins. “All with due time, my dear!”

He flicked the syringe, checking for bubbles, before turning to the subject sitting beside him. The man’s skin had lost most of its natural color – nothing the doctor could do there. He was now a dark, ashy green, with an exposed mandible that hung lifelessly under the bristles of a mustache. He looked as dead as he was, but his eyes – those beautiful, electric green eyes, burning with life – were as real as any other man’s in this dimension or the next. Junkenstein could stare at him for hours.

He was his pride. He was the culmination of everything he had worked towards. He was all he had left.

His monster was resilient, but he was in no way a companion. He would protect the doctor with his life, but there was no compassion there. The monster was a lifeless being, propelled only by the functions Junkenstein had installed into him. But the man in the chair had known life. He had even known Junkenstein before his luck ran out.

The Gunslinger had died alone in a dreary forest, succumbing to injuries sustained by a chimera. Though he had passed, his good fortune hadn’t disappeared completely; Junkenstein had found and recovered his body, which he worked tirelessly on until it held the man’s spirit once more. Now, here he was, staring dully at the needle in his arm as the doctor gave him the one thing that would keep him from rotting away to bones.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” Junkenstein murmured. “Soon I’ll have something to regenerate you. You won’t need this awful stuff anymore.” He cupped the Gunslinger’s cheek, remembering the fiery fervor with which he fought several years ago. He was nowhere near as lively as he had been back then, but the doctor supposed death did that to a person.

He withdrew the needle from the grayish flesh and cleaned it, wincing at the minuscule bits of skin still clinging to it. He had to be more careful, lest his creation wouldn’t last until the next full moon.

Junkenstein turned on his peg to face the Gunslinger once more, grinning giddily. “Oh! I nearly forgot. I got ya something.”

The Gunslinger blinked slowly. His glowing eyes never broke contact.

“I remember you sayin’ you disliked…this.” He gingerly prodded the dead man’s exposed jaw, the old flesh sticking tightly to the bone.

The Gunslinger nodded. A man of few words, he was, but talking must have been difficult. It pained Junkenstein’s heart to see him in such a way; it served as his motivation to buy him something fetching to cover his face, at least until he was fixed.

The doctor presented his gift, a black bandanna with half the face of a skull. Jamison found it suiting for the Gunslinger, in an ironic as well as a stylistic way, and could think of nothing better to hide his soon-to-be repaired face.

Though he couldn’t smile, the Gunslinger gave a quick huff that resembled a snicker. He took the bandanna and studied it, then leaned forward, sluggishly, to put it on. However, his maladroit fingers couldn’t perform the complex task of tying the cloth, and the bandanna crumpled into his lap. He stared at it in apparent frustration.

Junkenstein giggled. “Ah, love, you’re all thumbs. Lemme help.”

He picked up the bandanna and leaned toward the undead mercenary, wrapping the cloth around his neck gently. The cowboy’s skin was cool and dry, chilly enough to send a shiver down the doctor’s back. His face flushed as he brushed the long, brown hair out of the way, watching the Gunslinger’s eyes ease shut.

He enjoyed the intimacy while it lasted. He made sure to tie the bandanna as slowly as he could, allowing the cold body to lean against him for support. Once he was done, the Gunslinger’s luminous eyes opened again, powering on like a machine.

Junkenstien smiled. He kissed what was left of the mercenary’s cheek, holding the other side of his face to keep him steady. He hated to think of him fighting against the fresh batch of mercenaries the Lord of Adlersbrunn had undoubtedly recruited, but…

He had to keep in mind the entire reason why he saved the corpse in the first place. Such a powerful ally in life…he had to be just as useful in death, if not more so. He had nothing left to fear.

The Gunslinger was expendable. He was a means to an end. Junkenstein had to remember that.

He straightened up and left without a word, knowing the more time he spent so close, the more attached he would become to his creation. If he was to finally have his revenge, he would have to learn to let go.


End file.
